Until the End of the World
by geminigrl11
Summary: SPOILERS for AHBL, pts. 1 and 2. What happens when a deal can't be unmade.


Rating: PG

Notes: Beta'd by Faye and Kaly, but I played with it a LOT after. So don't blame them. Especially not for the unapologetically schmoopy title (which is from a U2 song that has nothing to do with this fic).

Disclaimers: I own nothing, nothing, nothing. Well, not in SN-land, anyway.

**SPOILERS: ANBL, pts. 1 and 2**

**--oo--**

**_Until the End of the World_**

**--oo--**

Sam's quiet the last week, disappearing for hours at a time. He comes back without saying where he's been and Dean doesn't ask, feels like he owes Sam this, this final attempt, even though he knows it will be fruitless. He'd do no less in Sam's place.

_Did_ no less.

Sam pores over manuscripts and journals and religious texts of every kind the way he has for the past twelve months, but it's harder to watch now, harder to see the desperation that permeates the very air around him. He makes notes and translations and mumbles to himself, but doesn't share any information. He doesn't sleep much, either, and Dean's eerily reminded of the days after Jess, when that smudged, hollow-eyed look was Sam's main accessory. No nightmares—a small blessing—but Dean's got a feeling that's because Sam's researching, planning, evaluating, even in his sleep.

Dean won't let himself feel guilty, though he knows he probably should. Sam's alive. It's worth the price, even if Sam doesn't believe it. Dean gets that—he might be the only person on the planet who does. But he'd do it all over again, if he had to, so there's no point pretending to be sorry.

He's grateful Sam doesn't call him on it, doesn't tell him how unfair it was to think that being the last man standing would somehow be easier for Sam.

The last day, Sam finally packs the books away. He sticks to Dean like glue, neither of them ever more than a few steps away from the other. They don't talk about it, talk about everything else instead, reminiscing hunts and girls and the different holes in the wall they've called home. Sam remembers stories from when they were kids that Dean's forgotten—closer to it, or maybe he's just trying harder. Dean smiles, feeling the bittersweet tug of pride and love and loss.

The last night, they get blindingly, stupidly drunk. By the time they're finished, they're barely coherent, propping each other up like a pair of playing cards, fragile and dependent. Sam's hand is fisted in Dean's jacket, head drooping heavy over his shoulder.

In the morning, they're quiet. Dean doesn't make jokes about haunting Sam or taking care of the car or always knowing it was a dangerous gig. Sam doesn't promise to forge on without him. There are no declarations of love or mourning for all the time that will be missed. They've already said those things in every way they could, and there would never be enough words, anyway.

They stand at the crossroads as the final moments tick away, standing as close as they ever have, the lines of their bodies mirroring each other.

Dean doesn't fight when she comes. He just watches as the space around him shimmers and contracts. He blinks and sees the demon standing in front of him, grinning, and then he's falling, everything compressing, tunneling to a pinpoint. He hears Sam shout and there's a flare of pain across both hands and someone screams.

Everything goes white and there is silence.

--oo--

He comes back to himself slowly, senses humming online one at a time. There's pain first—always pain, and Dean figures he should have known that would be the first thing he'd recognize. The air smells sharp and clean, which is unexpected; damp with dew and fresh with the blush of early morning sun.

His arms and legs feel prickly, like a low thrum of electricity is running through them. Something warm and solid is wrapped around him and when he tries to pull away, it tightens but not too much. He can still breathe.

There's a buzz in his ears. He shakes his head to clear it but it gets louder instead, shatters into recognizable sounds, becomes words, becomes a mantra.

"Please, Dean. Come back. I can't…I did everything, _everything,_ and you have to come back. You have to."

But Sam can't be here. Sam can't be…

He's being rocked, the steady back-and-forth of it making him a little nauseous. Something's pressed against the back of his neck and Sam's still begging. "I need you. I can't…I can't do this without you. _Please,_ Dean."

Just like that, he's fully awake, awake and aware and _furious_. He breaks away, hears Sam gasp, falls heavily on his hands and flinches when the pain flares up again.

"What did you do, Sam? What the hell did you do?"

He finally gets a look at his brother and Sam is…Sam is laughing. Pained, raw, gulping laughter that's verging on hysteria. Dean can't get his head around it. "What did you do?"

Sam holds his hands up, sliced diagonally from pointer finger to wrist, deep cuts still dripping with blood. "Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. Soul of my soul. Two as one."

Dean raises his own hands and sees the same cuts, though not as deep, just oozing. "Sam, _what did you do?_"

Sam tries to laugh again, but it's really more of a sob. He inches closer, grabs Dean's hands and presses their palms together, fingers intertwined. "It's okay. We're okay. She wouldn't…I couldn't get your soul back, so we'll share mine."

The words have meaning, but not together, because this can't be. People can't share a soul. "That's not possible."

And yet, he's still alive. And Sam's alive. And the demon is gone. He doesn't feel carved out, empty, like a negative of himself. He feels whole.

He feels maybe better than he's ever felt in his entire life.

This can't be.

Fear rips at his insides and he yanks Sam toward him. "What did you give up?" He knows what he traded and why, remembers Sam's fervent promise to do whatever it took. The possibilities are horrifying.

Sam stares down at their hands, eyes serious when he looks up again. "Nothing I couldn't live without."

Dean stares, too, searching Sam's face to see if he's telling the truth. Sam just nods, slow and deliberate.

Dean swallows once, twice, feels the pulse of blood—his and his brother's—pounding through his veins. He curls his fingers over Sam's, squeezes a little, and Sam smiles, big as anything. It lights up his face, makes him look like the kid in one of those Christmas commercials.

The sun is hot now on Dean's face, and there's a hint of honeysuckle in the air. He needs answers, because nothing Sam is saying makes sense. "How?"

"A blood sacrifice. A willing offering. And I had to…I had to believe." Sam's voice trails off and Dean knows there's more to it, more he'll have to ask about, more he'll probably never fully understand. Part of this was ritual, that much is clear, but part was…God, part was _faith_, and how can that be? He never had any to begin with, and he'd thought, with everything that happened, that Sam's was lost.

But then, Sam is always full of surprises. More going on in that freaky brain than Dean even wants to know, most of the time.

And maybe desperation is a faith of its own.

Dean's head is spinning now, but in a good way. He's trying to picture the soul thing, wondering how it worked, if Sam's was split down the middle, or if it simply grew to include Dean, too. Sam's kind of a giant. His soul had to be pretty big to begin with. Maybe there's been room for both of them, all along.

He figures it should feel weird, like he's trespassing or stealing, or even strained, like there's not quite enough to really cover him. But it doesn't. He closes his eyes, and it's there,_ Sam's_ there, a butterfly kiss beneath his skin. It doesn't feel unnatural, more like the final piece of a puzzle fixed in place, the return of something long missing to its home.

He's both relieved and terrified.

He shakes his head. "How much time did we get?" He figures six months, probably less. No way they'd get longer, not with the kinds of deal-makers they always seem to face.

Sam tightens his grip, eyes crinkling. "Until the end of the world."

His own laughter catches Dean by surprise. Sam, too, from the way his eyes widen. But really, the irony is just too rich. Few people know as well as they do how close they've come to just that, the world ending. How soon it might happen again.

But right at this moment, even if a moment is all they end up getting, he'll take it.

Sam's still with him, they're both whole, and hey, at least this way, neither can leave the other behind.

Dean pulls Sam in the rest of the way, their hands still linked together. He feels Sam's head tilt into his shoulder, the deep rise and fall of Sam's chest as he exhales, the slide of Sam's grin against his collarbone.

He turns his face up to the sun.

Yeah.

He'll take it.

_Fin_


End file.
